In Defense of the Vile
by orsa-verba
Summary: Good men die young, and this is the story of Quentin Beck dying. ( Except not really. ) [ PeterBeck / Spiderio ]


Cold rain falls on a bleak city. Fog rolls between buildings and broken streetlights line cracked sidewalks, granting light only at the vaguest moments. A forest of skyscrapers loom overhead, their windows dark and neon signage flickering. The night sky is blank, black, devoid of stars.

In an unmarked car beneath a defunct light, Detective Quentin Beck sits listening to the rain. The police scanner on his dash crackles intermittently, faint voices speaking in code filling the silence between raindrops. Through the windshield, he watches the strobing lights of passing cruisers.

"_10-29, suspect is fleeing on foot, please be advised..._"

Quentin steps out of his car, into the rain, and walks towards the two cruisers parked at an angle in front of him. There are at least five officers milling between them, some even appear to be doing their jobs.

"Officer." Quentin greets, indicating no one and garnering everyone's attention. "What did you find?"

A fresh-faced young man scrambles to his side. He's new enough to still look excited, like their work is a thrill.

"Suspect escaped before we could get to him, Detective. But we found something _interesting _while we were in pursuit."

There's nothing good about the emphasis he puts on "interesting".

Three young people lean against the tail of a cruiser, stood shoulder to shoulder with their wrists cuffed behind them. Two young men and a woman.

"See that, Detective?" the uni hushes to him. "That's _Peter Parker_. Tony fucking Stark's _heir_. Can't believe we actually got him in cuffs-"

"What'd they do?" Quentin interrupts.

"Don't know. I didn't cuff 'em. Gonzalez said-"

"So they weren't doing shit."

"W-well, I-"

"_Jesus Christ_." He's soaking wet and sans a suspect. Little could ruin his night more than gung-ho probies. "Give me the fucking keys, Officer."

"But-!" the uni exclaims, like this is an argument and he can win it. "Detective, they're-!"

"Not committing any crimes. Give me. The keys."

He gives him the keys.

Quentin only has to look at the second officer standing by the cuffed trio to make her leave. She's smarter than her partner, who starts audibly ranting as soon as he has a new ear to complain to.

Of the trio, Peter Parker is the smallest. He's also the only one Quentin recognizes. Even drenched, there's no disguising his messy curls and big brown eyes. So innocent looking for a man with a bodycount nearing three digits.

"Names?" Quentin asks. Maybe he'll get lucky. Maybe one of them has an outstanding warrant.

"Peter Parker."

"Ned Leeds."

"Michelle Jones."

"I think there's been a misunderstanding, Detective...?" Parker raises an eyebrow.

"Beck." Quentin supplies. "Probably has. Wanna tell me why these officers put you in cuffs?"

"Police brutality." Michelle Jones snaps.

"We were walking to a club over on Second and Delaney." Ned Leeds adds.

It's an underground club with a lapsed liquor license, but that's the least of Quentin's problems tonight. He gestures for them to turn around and unlocks their cuffs one at a time. They turn back to him, expressions guarded.

"You're free to go."

"For real?"

"Yeah, go on. Get outta here."

Parker is staring at him, rubbing his wrists absently, unblinking. Something about his expression sends alarm bells ringing in Quentin's head.

"Thank you, Detective Beck." Parker says.

Michelle Jones grabs his elbow and yanks at him, leading him back to the sidewalk and away from the police cruisers. He goes with her without complaint, but never once takes his eyes off Quentin as they retreat into the distance.

Quentin turns away. A streetlight flickers.

* * *

The captain of his precinct is a man with a thick mustache and an unattractive gut. He looks like the cartoon image of a policeman, except for his steely eyes. When he glares, it's like having two bullets coming right at your skull.

"What were you _thinking_, Beck? You let Parker _go_?"

"We had no probable cause to hold him."

"Then you shoulda _found_ some! Christ, Beck, a bullshit drunken disorderly woulda done the job. He's not some school kid, he's a fucking mafioso."

"And he's slid on real charges before, Captain. Seemed pointless to bring him in on nothing."

His captain sighs.

"You're a good man, Beck. One of the reasons I like you so much. But good men die young it this city, so you best figure out how the scuff the shine off that moral compass of yours."

* * *

The Northshore Diner has shit coffee and stale toast. Quentin sits at a table with both in front of him, nursing the coffee while he stares at the morning's paper without bothering to read it. No point. It's the same ugly stories covered in a new layer of glossy varnish, packaged and sold to people desperate enough to believe them.

He buys the paper on his way to the diner every morning after his shift is done, but he never reads it. Habits become a symptom of insanity over time.

"Detective Beck?"

Peter Parker smiles as he stops beside Quentin's table. He's dressed like every other college student in the city, trendy clothes a few sizes too big and hair just unkempt enough to look effortless.

"I wanted to thank you for the other night."

"I didn't really do anything worth thanks."

"Well, maybe not." Parker agrees. "But we both know you could've made things much more difficult for my friends and I."

He could have. Maybe even should have. But he didn't, because Quentin Beck has a moral compass he just can't get to stray from true north.

"You were in the wrong place at the wrong time." he says.

Parker's smile gets wider.

"Let me buy you breakfast. We can have a chat."

Quentin stands up and downs the rest of his acrid coffee. He sets the mug back on the table and lays a twenty dollar bill beside it.

"No." he says, and grabs his coat.

Peter Parker steps aside as Quentin brushes past him, shrugging his heavy coat on as he makes his way to the door.

"...Have a good day, Detective Beck." Parker says to his retreating back.

* * *

They fish six bodies out of the river on a Wednesday. Four are bloated and misshapen, two are fresh and pale. None of them have hands or recognizable faces, skulls beaten to a pulp to disguise their features.

Just six more bodies they'll never identify.

Quentin storms from the pier when the divers finish their sweep and find no other corpses. No evidence either. If they really looked, they might find a gun that's been stripped of serial numbers and doused in acid before being left to the elements.

It's pointless. Quentin is _tired_.

He slams the door shut when he gets in his car, then leans back and closes his eyes. The futility of it all drags on his soul tonight.

Someone knocks on the passenger side window.

Quentin should have locked his doors when he got in the car, but it's too late for that revelation. There's already someone sliding into the back seat, jeans worn at the knees and cheeks pink from the cold.

"Hello, Detective Beck." Peter Parker smiles. "Chilly night, huh?"

"Get out." Quentin says, more weary than harsh.

"But it's warm in here! And it's late. I shouldn't be out on my own at this hour, don't you think?"

What he thinks is that Parker likes to play games without telling anyone the rules.

"You need to go home, kid."

Parker leans forward and rests his elbows on the passenger seat, cheek against the headrest. Tonight, his hair is tousled and floppy, it makes him look younger.

"What if I haven't got anywhere to go?" he asks, voice soft and sweet. "Can I go home with you, Detective Beck?"

Quentin's hands tighten on the steering wheel. Involuntarily, his gaze drops to Parker's plump mouth and watches it curl into a self-satisfied smile.

"...Get out." he repeats.

* * *

Holding is almost at capacity tonight. Quentin shoves another tatted up gang banger in and slams the bars shut behind him.

On his way back to his desk he catches sight of Natalie Baker, in for the third time in two months. She looks like a mess; eyeliner smudged, braid tattered, and a fresh bruise blooming on her cheek. If she ever laughed, she might have been pretty.

Quentin watches her signing papers with a shaky hand, her wallet clutched in her palm. Natalie is bailing her husband out again. He doesn't need to hear what the desk clerk is saying to know, he's been through this with her enough times it's all but scripted.

She never presses charges. Quentin tried to convince her for a long time, but she never budged. He's given up now. All he does is watch from across the precinct as she fakes a smile for the clerk and slides the papers back.

When she looks up, their eyes meet. Natalie lifts her hand, as if to wave, then drops it and looks away. Quentin turns to the vending machine before he has to watch Jacob Baker walk free again.

One scumbag in, another one out. On and on it goes.

* * *

"Over here, Detective." the officer motions. "He kept insisting we call you..."

Every fiber of his being wants him to turn around and walk straight back to his car the second he sees Peter Parker. At a glance it's obvious that he's leaning against a building for support and laughing too loudly.

There's actual work to be done, but Parker's drunk and wants his attention. Quentin could kill him.

"I've got it from here." he says, roughly dismissing the uniformed officer warily watching as Parker grins. The man seems all too happy to beat a hasty retreat.

"Detective Beck!" Parker giggles, pushing off the wall and into his space. Quentin catches him by the shoulders and holds him at arm's length.

"Why am I here, Parker?"

"_Peter_." he whines. "You're so _serious_..."

Quentin grits his teeth.

"Peter. Why did you tell the officers to call me?"

"We-ell," Peter sways. "I oughta get home... But I can't really _stand_..."

Is he drunk? High? He's giggly and drowsy-eyed, smells like cigar smoke and cheap vodka, but that could mean anything. This level of inebriation seems unlike him. Did some idiot seriously drug Tony Stark's heir apparent?

Quentin has to tell himself it isn't his concern.

"C'mon." he sighs.

Peter Parker isn't the first dumb kid he's driven home in the back of his car, but he _is_ the first to live on the rich side of town. Driving between the rows of mini-mansions and faux-estates makes Quentin's stomach turn. Such pretty trappings to hide such ugly, ugly things.

The Stark mansion has a gate and a drive, which Quentin stops at the bottom of. Before Peter gets out of the car, he holds out a scrap of paper with his personal number on it.

"Here." he says. "For emergencies."

Peter Parker isn't the first person he's given his number to. He won't be the last. But he's the first one to lean over the front seat and kiss him, quick and clumsy, before clambering out of the car.

Quentin watches him walk up the drive to the manor.

* * *

Peter Parker texts him.

Almost hourly.

Quentin replies only once to remind him that he gave him the number for _emergencies_.

Peter keeps texting. Just slightly less often.

* * *

Club Caviar is as pretentious and revolting as its namesake. The inside is dressed up like something from the roaring twenties, but smells like champagne and marijuana. Ambient lighting along the booths contrasts with the strobing neon of the dance floor.

Not ten feet in the door, Quentin sees at least three girls too young to be drinking, a man doing a line of coke off a woman's thigh, and more cash stacked on a poker table than he's ever had in his bank account. He ducks and weaves towards the back slowly, sliding between people and avoiding curious hands.

Michelle Jones spots him first, nudging the person beside her until they turn away from whoever they were canoodling with. Peter beams when he sees him and jumps up. When he gets close enough, he tosses his arms around Quentin's neck.

"Detective Beck, you made it!" he laughs over the pounding base. "Come dance with me!"

"You're high."

It's probably ecstasy. Peter's eyes are almost black and he keeps laughing breathily. His body rocks with the music, too close for comfort, close enough Quentin can feel how warm he is.

"And I'm on duty." he adds. "I should arrest you."

Peter's eyes get darker, somehow.

"I bet I'd look real pretty in your cuffs."

Jesus Christ.

Quentin scowls. He shouldn't have come. All he has to do is shove Peter away and he can leave.

Like he's read his mind, Peter clings on tighter and whines; "Wait! Wait wait wait, I'm sorry, hey, I'm sorry. Don't be mad, don't leave."

His hands are on Quentin's neck, against the back of his head, fingers tracing patterns over his scalp. Buzzed hair must be an interesting sensory experience when you're high on E.

"You're so busy, Detective." Peter laments. "So stressed all the time. You never smile. It worries me, y'know? Seeing you all wound up."

"I'm a cop. It comes with the job."

"Haven't you heard the one about all work and no play?"

This is dangerous. How easy would it be to put his hands on Peter's waist and lead him to the dance floor? Fuck the dancing, think how easy it would be to lift him up against the wall and see how sensitive the ecstasy's made him.

Quentin swallows. Peter presses against his front.

"Come on, Detective Beck..." he purrs. "Stay a while. Smoke a joint, do a line, have a little fun. You _deserve_ it."

And he does, doesn't he? Quentin works long hours, spends his days chasing down the worst people he can catch and the city rarely thanks him. There are more wasted days than worthwhile ones in this fucked up town.

"One shot." he hears himself say. "I'll do _one_ shot, Peter."

The shot is tequila. It shows up on a tray with salt and lime at the booth where Peter's pushed him down and straddled his thighs. He's so damn pleased with himself now he's in Quentin's lap, grinning ear to ear. Caution flies out the window when he dips his fingers in the drink, then draws a wet line along his neck. The salt sticks, when he pours it on.

The lime goes in Peter's mouth.

Too late to back out now.

Quentin takes the shot, lets the tequila burn its way down his throat, then goes for the salt. The flat of his tongue drags up Peter's neck, tasting salt and sweat and _skin_. His head is at the wrong angle. Quentin grips his hair and moves him so he can suck the lime caught between Peter's teeth.

The heat radiating off him is intoxicating. E has him running hot as a furnace, rolling his hips into the barest hint of friction. If the lime weren't there, he could lick into his mouth and tongue him until he was starving for breath. The tequila must be talking, because Quentin's already considering it.

But Peter pulls away, gets off his lap, and lets him leave with a smile and a wave. Just the one shot, just like he said.

* * *

Quentin Beck lives off a diet of coffee with too much sugar and not nearly enough food for the hours he spends awake. Quantity always trumps quality. He eats half his meals from vending machines and subpar holes in the wall like the Northshore Diner.

Peter encourages him to try new places and eat better food. Each suggestion comes with a list of dishes to try and a conscious effort to keep the price range somewhere within the realm of possibility.

"Are you drinking coffee _every_ time I see you?" Peter asks.

His answer is a baleful look over the rim of a paper cup. Peter sighs.

"All that caffeine is bad for your heart. If you're not gonna stop, then at least drink tea."

A week later, Quentin transitions from coffee to green tea. It's an acquired taste, but after a few days and a dash of cream, he quite likes it.

Not long after, a fancy box of matcha shows up in his mailbox. There's no sender listed.

* * *

Quentin comes home after a forty-six hour shift and Peter Parker is standing on his front stoop, looking like sex on legs. If he weren't consumed by cold fire and seething hate, Quentin might appreciate it more. He looks like he went out of his way to toe the line between his affluence and casual seduction, pairing designer jeans with a leather jacket and relaxed shirt.

"Now's not the time, Parker." he snarls.

"Well that's mean." Parker frowns as he steps down the stairs to meet him. "I thought we were on better terms than that, Detective Beck."

If he were standing a foot closer, Quentin might honestly consider decking him. Nothing sounded better than taking his frustrations out on someone with as much blood on their hands as Peter Parker. It would be _justified_.

"I'm not on any fucking _terms_ with lying, degenerate criminals like _you_, Parker."

The young man goes still as stone. Never has Quentin seen someone's body language shift so fast. There's no trace of the flirty party-boy from moments ago, Parker is suddenly all hard angles and wide, staring eyes.

"I have _never_ lied to you, Quentin." he says, voice sharp as cold steel. "And I never _will_."

He takes a step forward and Quentin is powerless to stop him. Rooted to the spot, he can only watch as he comes closer, stepping into his space like he belongs there. The dark, haunting expression from seconds previously is gone, replaced with a gentle frown.

Parker's hands come up to frame his face, smooth palms on either side of his head. His thumbs drag slow across his cheekbones.

"Was it a dead kid?"

Quentin shakes with barely contained rage. The smoldering embers of fury are still bright, ready to burst alive again at a moment's notice. But he's tired, so bone-deep weary that he can hardly stand up straight.

She was seven. Just fucking seven.

Parker croons and pulls him in, leaning up on his toes so their noses brush. He doesn't go for the kiss, doesn't give Quentin an excuse to sock him in the jaw, just nudges their noses together.

"We can take care of this, Quentin." he coos. "We can get justice, together. You don't have to do this alone."

And, God help him, he considers it. For one, weak moment, he considers it.

It takes reserves of willpower he didn't know he had to pull away.

"Your way isn't justice." he tells him.

Parker watches him step back, expression blank again. His hands stay, hovering in the air, as if he expects Quentin to come back.

He goes inside his building instead and leaves Peter Parker on the pavement.

* * *

An arrangement was never made, but it becomes habit for Peter to show up for breakfast at the Northshore Diner at least once a week. The food is shit and Peter's too well-off to be eating with the bottom barrel scum who shuffle in at 7AM, but he shows up.

Today, he's wearing a cream colored turtleneck under a charcoal gray blazer. His casual clothes have slowly disappeared over time, like a snake shedding its skin.

"I want you." he says.

Quentin keeps his eyes on the paper. Someone's been elected. They look like the last person to hold the office.

"If you were mine, you could still protect people. We could make this city _better_, together." Peter leans across the table on his elbows, lowering his voice to a hush. "I meant what I said, Quentin... You don't have to do this alone. Be mine. I can take care of you."

Such an earnest expression almost disguises the sinister undertone of his proposition. Quentin can see how men and women have given their lives for this young man. Those doe eyes implore him to give in.

He refuses.

"What you want is a dog, Peter. I don't plan on wearing a muzzle and chain."

"Why, Detective Beck," Peter smiles. "If I've got a hunting dog, I don't plan to put a muzzle on it."

* * *

Being shot is an inconvenience. It used to be a concern, but these days Quentin is back to work as soon as possible, bullet wound and all. He forgets sometimes that to everyone else, a hole in the shoulder is a good excuse not to hit the streets.

"Easy, kid." he winces.

Peter lifts his weight from Quentin's shoulder, frowning at him from the back seat. They're waiting for a suspect. Or Quentin is. He isn't sure why the kid is here.

"You hurt?" Peter asks.

A grunt.

"Pulled muscle?"

"If that involves digging a .9mm out of my shoulder, then yeah."

Peter stills.

"...You got shot?"

"Yep."

"How?"

"Trigger happy fuckers down by the tracks. Brass thinks they just moved in on the meth trade down there."

But Peter Parker knows that already. Nothing breathes in this city without Tony Stark knowing about it, and what he knows, Peter knows. Hell, they're probably the ones who rolled out the welcome mat for the latest threat to public safety. Could be they're tolerating them for the profit.

Doesn't matter. The cops round them up, new cockroaches crawl out and take their places.

Quentin catches Peter's eye in the rearview mirror. For a split second, there's a look on his face he's never seen before. An expression of empty, monstrous intent.

"I see." Peter smiles, and his visage clears.

His smile doesn't reach his eyes.

* * *

He hates him. Hates his perfect smile and impeccable clothing, the playful bounce in his step and the way salt tastes on his skin.

Peter Parker is comfortable in this rotting city and Quentin hates him for it.

It's like he walks with footsteps so light they float atop the sea of decay. It just doesn't touch him, no grime on his shoes or blood in his teeth. All Quentin wants, _all he wants to do_, is to drag him down into the muck and drown him.

There are bodies in the water again.

There are always bodies in the water.

But these ones, Quentin recognizes. No one bothered to crush their skulls or chop off their hands. Their gang tatts are on full display as their carcasses are dragged from the river.

Seven more bodies. The one belonging to the man who shot him is riddled with bullet holes.

* * *

This _thing_ between them has stretched to its limit and Quentin can't keep pretending like it isn't there. It should have been his first priority to avoid getting wrapped up in Peter's games. He's sweet like milk and honey, so by the time he makes holes in your teeth, it's too late. That was the danger of him.

The next time Peter shows up on his stoop, Quentin grabs his arm and drags him inside.

He can't go on like this. Can't _function_ with him on his mind. The only way to be rid of Peter Parker is to get him out of his system.

Catharsis comes in kissing him with too much teeth and not enough air. Relief floods through him when he tears the expensive fabric of his button-down. A coil of tension unwinds in his chest as he finally gets his hands on bare skin. Peter moans and clings and tosses his head back in offering until Quentin puts his mouth there.

Peter has scars, the kind caused with intent.

Someone hurt him and meant to leave their mark behind. To make a point? To teach a lesson? It doesn't matter, really, because the sight of them on his skin lights kerosene in Quentin's chest. There's nothing he hates quite as much as kids getting hurt.

Except that Peter isn't a kid, he's a monster. And he's not a monster, he's a human being. He's Peter Parker, prince of violence and corruption. Heir to this joke of a city and all the fool's gold it has to offer.

And he's in Quentin's bed, willing and eager, trusting in a way he has no right to be with a man who should be his enemy hovered on top of him.

Quentin has to stop thinking.

He puts his mouth on Peter's scars and pushes two fingers inside him. Heady pleas of "_yes_" and "_more_" echo inside his skull. Nails dig into his shoulders and scratch up the back of his neck hard enough to leave marks. Peter won't stop squirming and arching into every touch.

It's unfair how good Peter looks when he orgasms.

Quentin sits back on his heels and retrieves a condom from the bedside drawer. Eyes follow him as he rolls the condom down over his cock.

"Don't know where you've been, kid." he grunts, hoping to head off any whining at the pass.

But Peter just lays there and smiles at him, like he's the most brilliant thing he's ever seen.

"Nowhere as good as here." he breathes.

The way he says it, Quentin almost believes him.

* * *

Fucking Peter Parker is a religious experience. Or maybe it's a hit of every designer drug on the market straight to the system. Whatever it is, it changes Quentin's world.

Before Peter, he was a man without addictions. Vices aplenty, but always in moderation.

There's nothing _moderate_ about Peter fucking Parker. He's all or nothing, abstinence or self-indulgent depravity.

Quentin Beck is a good man, but even he can't resist temptation so eagerly given.

* * *

Natalie Baker is at the front desk again. One of her arms is in a sling and she stumbles when she walks, foot dragging. Jacob Baker sneers at the officer undoing his cuffs and shoulders past him to grab his wife. She flinches when he touches her.

"How long till we're fishin' her outta the pier, you reckon?" a cop drawls.

"Not long." answers another.

Later that day, Quentin says;

"He's going to kill her one day."

Peter lays on his chest, dressed in nothing but the discarded button down Quentin wore to work last night. He drags his fingers through his hair, rhythmically stroking from his forehead to the shorn hair at the back of his skull. It's getting long again. Peter's asked twice if he can buzz it.

"No he won't." he soothes, kissing up Quentin's jaw to his temple. "She's going to be fine."

Quentin's eyes drift closed and he tilts his chin up, prompting a kiss on his mouth. Peter tastes like absinthe and cherry candy, and he believes him.

* * *

Jacob Baker is found in an alley two days later. Two shots to the chest, center mass, and a third straight through his forehead at point blank range.

* * *

The lights are dim in the Rouge Lounge, but even in near-darkness it's hard to miss the whore in Peter's lap. She's barely dressed, her sheer dress riding up her thighs and fake gold glittering on her wrists and neck like a price tag.

Quentin only came here to get some answers. There are questions he should've asked months ago and cadavers he can't get out of his head that Peter Parker put there. But all that is swept from his mind by a wave of jealous rage so intense it blurs his vision.

Sense leaves him and before he can stop himself, Quentin is storming across the bar. They never established what they are, never mentioned a need for monogamy. Who Peter fucks in his free time isn't any of his business, except that it _is_.

Peter has the forethought to push the woman off him when he spots the detective coming. The minute she's off his lap she becomes irrelevant. All of his focus narrows to the cheeky, delighted smile on Peter's face.

Quentin snarls and drags him to his feet. Peter comes too fucking willingly and it occurs to him too late that maybe the bratty little fuck _planned_ this. If he wasn't furious before, he is now, but he can't tell where envy ends and the hate begins.

"Detective." Peter says breathily, fluttering his lashes.

He wants to choke the life out of him. Wipe that winning smile off his fucking face and make him regret toying with a man two steps from unhinged.

Peter looks absolutely overjoyed when Quentin fists a hand in his hair and forces his head back. He clutches onto his jacket and pushes up on his toes wantonly as teeth descend on his throat. When Quentin bites down, Peter moans like he's got a hand on his dick.

If he sinks his teeth any deeper into his neck he's going to puncture flesh. Quentin's never bitten someone with the intention of scarring them before. The sensation is exhilarating, terrifying, _freeing_, because Peter is rocking against his thigh and begging in kittenish mewls for him to _keep going_.

So he does. He bites down until he feels his canines _pop_ through Peter's skin. The taste of blood in his mouth is dizzying and euphoric, it soothes the wild animal he pretends doesn't live inside his rib cage.

Peter gasps his name like a prayer.

* * *

Of all the things to die for, Peter Parker's general whereabouts hadn't been at the top of his list.

The inside of his mouth keeps filling with blood. He might be missing a tooth, but it's hard to tell if his gums hurt when his whole body is screaming. Someone wrenches his head back again and Quentin blinks up at the ceiling, eyes unfocused.

"It's real simple Detective, you want this to stop, all you gotta tell us is where we can find Parker."

The answer is with him, usually. In his bed, refusing to wear anything that didn't belong to Quentin originally. Or sitting in the back of his car while he runs down leads, reminding him to eat at random intervals.

"We know he's gotten real chummy with you lately. Seems he likes to show up wherever you are and make a nuisance of himself."

That _does_ sound like Peter. It makes Quentin wonder how many times a case has ended well because Peter was there, interfering from the sidelines. Though, why would he help a cop catch criminals? Silly question. Because it's what _Quentin _cares about.

"Hey, c'mon, Detective." Someone pats his cheek harshly. "All you gotta do is tell us."

He _could_ just tell them. Was it really worth dying just to keep it to himself that Peter Parker spends his nights with him? Quentin summons what strength he has left.

Then he spits blood at whoever's talking to him.

"Go to _hell_."

Someone swears loudly. His head is slammed forward by a blow to the back of his skull. Quentin sees stars and coughs blood, and then there's cold water being dumped over him. Ah, fuck, not again. There's no good way to brace for electrocution, you just have to ride it out.

And it _hurts_. No amount of pride or dignity can keep you from screaming, Quentin doesn't waste his time trying.

It stops abruptly. He slumps forward, breathing ragged, the whole world a blank expanse of agony around him. Vaguely, he's aware of people moving, a frantic voice yelling. Are those guns being cocked?

People are running. Out the door and down the hall, and distantly there's gunfire. Darkness threatens his vision and Quentin grapples for consciousness, trying not to fade in the middle of a firefight. It's useless, his body is at its limit.

But before he succumbs to unconsciousness, he's aware of a figure entering the room. A demon all in black, blood splattered across their cheek, with a pistol in their gloved hand. His vision blurry, he can't quite make out their features, but he doesn't need to.

The last thought to cross his mind is that finally, Peter Parker, the prince of this decaying city, is down in the muck with the rest of them.

* * *

Quentin wakes to blue curtains and white walls, scratchy sheets and a firm pillow beneath his head. The hospital smell of disinfectant and air freshener permeates the room.

He's alive. Even safe, maybe. Trying to sit up proves fruitless, so he endeavors to turn his head and take stock of his surroundings before he passes out again. The hospital room is empty and uninspiring, except for the person sitting at his beside.

"_Quentin_."

In the blink of an eye, Peter is out of the uncomfortable hospital chair and perched on the edge of his bed, crowding into his space.

"Relax, Quentin, _shh_..." he coos, petting the unbruised skin of his cheek. "It's okay. You're safe. Everything is okay."

Peter's hand moves up and strokes through his hair and even morphine can't keep that from feeling like the best thing in the world. Quentin exhales and leans into the sensation. Someone could put a gun to his temple and he'd stay right where he was.

There's an expression he doesn't recognize on Peter's face. Something like sadness and awe and warmth.

"You never broke." he says wonderingly. "You wouldn't tell them _anything_. Quentin, why did you do that? I wouldn't have hated you if you told them where to find me."

Quentin blinks slowly. He can't get his jaw to move or his voice to work, but something in his gaze must convey what he's thinking. Peter makes a small, broken sound.

"But you'd never do that, would you?" He exhales shakily and presses a tender kiss to Quentin's slack mouth. "You're too good."

Another kiss is laid gently against his lips, then a third placed on his brow. Peter rests their foreheads together, still stroking his hair in the same rhythmic motion.

"Go back to sleep, baby." he murmurs. "I'm going to take care of you from now on, I promise."

* * *

Tony Stark is in his hospital room.

Quentin isn't any more sure what to do with this information now than he was five minutes ago, when the man walked in. He sat himself in the chair at the foot of the bed and has been waiting, patiently, for the nurse to finish checking vitals and making notes. When she leaves, it's just the two of them.

"I gotta say," Stark begins, once the door is closed. "When Peter said you were the best looking cop in this city, he wasn't kidding."

Quentin blinks. He has zero idea how to process that information. Thankfully before he has to, Stark sits forward and continues.

"Now usually, I encourage the kid to cultivate his own people, but I admit I was skeptical about you. The one do-gooder cop in this city? I figured he was wasting his time. And yet, here we are." he spreads his hands. "You get kidnapped, tortured, and you still like the kid enough to let him fuss over you in the hospital."

"And?" Quentin demands.

Stark grins like a wildcat.

"That goes beyond protect and serve, Detective. That's _loyalty_. Which is a quality I happen to be very fond of. I'm here to offer you a job."

And if that doesn't rock Quentin's world on its axis, nothing will. Tony Stark doesn't _make_ job offers. Third parties reach out with contracts and no one ever meets face to face. How many of Stark's thugs has he heard this from over the years?

But Stark is offering _him_ a job.

"Pay's better." Stark says conversationally as he stands. "Health plan too. And you'll work for the kid, not me. I just sign the checks."

He waits a moment, then turns and heads for the door. His hand is on the knob when Quentin says;

"Can I think about it?"

Tony Stark opens the door to his hospital room and looks back at him, grin wide.

"Offer's open indefinitely, Q. I'll be seeing you."

* * *

Quentin Beck has dedicated a decade of his life to the police force. What does he have to show for it? A detective's badge earned with blood and sweat that means about as much as a plastic replica. Every day he watches the same criminals file in and out of the precinct, the same crimes so unpunished. He works long hours for not enough money, struggling for a happy ending to just _one_ of the horror stories he investigates.

When he looks around the bullpen, all he sees are cops on the take. Detectives who scrub files and lose evidence, unis who smuggle drugs out as often as they funnel them in. Their captain lives in a house he could never afford with an apartment on the side for his mistress. If a cop is clean, they're new.

Except him. Just Quentin Beck, the one good man in this festering shithole, holding stubbornly to his morals.

And why the fuck should he? Why does he keep fighting this uphill battle when there are easier ways? What if he could keep protecting people, what if he could _save_ them, instead of always showing up too late?

Peter Parker is right there, savior and damnation and so fucking desperate for Quentin to take his hand. Why shouldn't he? What's stopping him?

Why _not_?

* * *

Peter Parker is standing on his front steps again.

Sex on legs is still the best description he can think of for him, even though he's forsaken the leather jacket and denim. Tailored suits accentuate his sleek physique.

The smile on his face is just for Quentin, an open and adoring expression that he shows no one else. He meets him at the bottom of the stairs, reaching for him before they even say hello. Quentin cups the side of his jaw and kisses him, long and slow.

"I missed you." he rumbles when they part.

Peter beams and curls his fingers tighter at his waist, pushing closer though there's no space between them.

The next kiss is deep, too passionate for public places, but they really don't give a fuck. Anyone who might be passing by is wise enough to mind their business.

"I missed you too, Quentin." Peter sighs into his mouth.

Finally, they break apart and climb the stairs to his building. Quentin keeps Peter hugged tight against his side the whole time.

* * *

"Detective Beck, I don't know what brought this on, but consider your options here..." his captain pleads. "Think of your future. You're a good man, you don't want things to go like this."

Quentin blinks slowly.

Not long ago, he thinks that the captain's emphatic words might have meant something to him. But his perspective has shifted. He can see past the sympathetic mask to what's underneath, the man who's passed him over for promotions and always shunted him off to cases he can't possibly close.

It's funny how clearly he sees the world from on high, rather than down in the mire.

"You once told me all good men die young, Captain." he says.

The captain's shifty eyes dart nervously to and fro, refusing to meet his gaze. For more than a decade, he's been the man in control. Their dynamic has always been the same. But he isn't at the top of the food chain anymore.

Quentin smiles with too many teeth.

"Consider this my way of dying."


End file.
